


The Other Side

by shadow_lover



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Cousin Incest, Draco Malfoy Defects, Enemies to Lovers, Forced Cohabitation, M/M, Magical Healing Touch, Magical Illness, Sirius Black Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-04
Packaged: 2019-06-17 13:35:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15462534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadow_lover/pseuds/shadow_lover
Summary: Weak and unstable, Sirius is confined to Grimmauld Place after surviving the veil. His first mission in a year: guarding newly-defected Draco Malfoy.





	The Other Side

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Codydarkstalker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Codydarkstalker/gifts).



> Thanks for requesting these two! Hope you enjoy :D

Sirius passes through the veil and out the other side.

According to Harry, that _through_ is only an instant. Remus says he only saw a flicker of shadow, a shiver of nothing. The briefest loss of balance.

For Sirius, it is a yearlong night, and when he stumbles back into the fray of curselight and panic, he is changed.

After the veil, his magic is wrong.

He casts one spell, and another takes effect. He grasps in vain for familiar fire, and his wand may as well be a butter knife for all the good it does him. He is weak, useless, relegated once more to his family home by an Order that cannot use him elsewhere. He barely remembers the summer months, and Remus confessed on one visit he thought Sirius might be slowly dying.

But it’s worse: he’s slowly living as the world races past him into war.

*

By winter, some of his magic has settled again, but only when he is within the walls of Number 12, Grimmauld Place. Old magic, blood magic, bolsters him, much as he hates it. Even at his best, he feels faded. A shadow of himself. He sleeps too much, and he dreams of Azkaban.

When he is awake, he drinks more than he should, and he hangs onto Harry’s letters as a lifeline. He hears about classes and Quidditch and fucking Snape getting the Defense Against the Dark Arts position. He hears about Ron and Hermione, and Harry—probably sensibly—doesn’t take any of his advice about Ginny Weasley. He hears about meetings with Dumbledore, and these frustrate him more than anything, because he knows he isn’t getting the full story.

He hears a _lot_ about the Malfoy kid.

*

Near the end of May, there is a knock at the door. Sirius answers to find McGonagall, grim-faced, with a pale figure at her shoulder.

Sirius is well used to seeing ghosts and memories. He feels like one himself sometimes, and he can blame it on the veil, but truth be told he’s been feeling it for years now. He is a soul stretched far too thin over his bones. Some days the past feels far more real than the present—far clearer and more beautiful. Some days he thinks he sees people who are no longer there, or even those still living but long since changed.

So, when he sees familiar pale profile staring off down the street, it is no wonder his first thought is, _Narcissa_. 

The mistake is brief. Narcissa is too old. This boy is too mean and too scared. Sirius dislikes him immediately.

McGonagall introduces him to his new involuntary house guest, Draco Malfoy.

“You’re not leaving me with a murderer,” Draco says, indignant.

Sirius laughs. “You should be used to murderers, with a family like yours.”

“Sirius Black is not a murderer,” McGonagall says, glaring at them both before resuming her explanations. Sirius leans against the wall as she talks. He isn’t steady.

Then they are alone.

Sirius stares down at his young cousin. He’s pale, and appears all the more so against the smoke-dark wallpaper. The twerp doesn’t look like much. Sirius is unsurprised he failed in his mission. More surprised that he actually fled the Death Eaters. Then again, they’re kin, and Sirius knows too well: self-preservation runs strong through their family’s veins.

It is not a compliment. 

Draco is to stay at Grimmauld Place for one month, until the Order finds a more secure location for him and Snape can assist at the end of term. McGonagall phrased it in terms of _protection_ , but Sirius understands he is more Draco’s jailor than anything else.

“McGonagall’s bound you to the house,” Sirius says. “Try to leave if you like; it’ll be funny.”

Draco scowls. “I heard. I was right here.”

It takes great strength of will to ignore him instead of snapping, _shut up._ It’s not his fault Sirius is a prisoner in his own home. It’s not his fault that his familiar features, the very cadence of his words, recalls in sharp relief everything Sirius hates about blood and tradition.

“Great,” Sirius says evenly. “Hand over your wand.”

He expects an argument. Instead, Draco moves mechanically, a toy with rusted joints, and obeys.

When Sirius takes the wand, their fingers brush with a strange, magical prickle. He pockets the wand and notes how tired Draco looks. They speak very little as Sirius points him at a guest room.

Sirius detours to the kitchen to instruct Kreacher not to help or obey Draco in any way. Then he pours a drink, slowly, so it doesn’t spill when his hand shakes. Downs it. Pours another to sip more slowly as he waits for sleep.

*

Draco, to Sirius’s shock, is a model house guest. Sirius rarely sees him. He isn’t worried about Draco escaping; the binding is strong, and he’s confined to his bedroom unless the house is empty. Dumbledore’s orders are to keep his presence as secret as possible.

The first time they come close to talking is when he catches Draco in the living room. Draco stands before the great Black family tree. His face is calm, his hands twisted tense behind his back.

He doesn’t turn when Sirius approaches, but he says quietly, “I should be scorched off of this too.”

Sirius moves to the sidebar and pours himself a tumbler of Firewhiskey. He doesn’t need to look at the tapestry to see it clearly. “For a little thing like deserting the Dark Lord? No. Scorching’s for the really bad shit, like marrying Muggles or riding a motorcycle.”

Draco snorts, turns, seems to catch himself in the smile before it can spread too far across his face. 

“See, Regulus is still on there,” Sirius says, and he can tell by the way Draco’s face darkens that he has heard something of Regulus. Of course. A cautionary tale. Draco is not the first teenager to resign from the Dark Lord’s service. He just hasn’t died for it yet.

Wordless, Sirius pours a second glass of Firewhiskey. Leaves it on the mantle and leaves the room. When he returns hours later, the glass is empty on the table, and Draco is gone to bed.

*

They don’t take meals together. Just sometimes they’re eating at the same table at the same time. On perhaps the fourth morning, Draco looks up over his toast and asks, “What’s wrong with you, anyway?”

Sirius looks up too. It is strange to sit and eat with someone who does not already know: last year he fell through a veil, and he came back wrong.

“None of your business,” he says.

*

Late afternoon on June 5, Sirius lingers over coffee in the kitchen, when he hears a muffled yelp from the dining room. The next sound is his mug shattering on the floor; he is already moving, wand drawn, a curse ready on his lips—

There’s no attack. Just Draco rocking back from the window, cradling his hand to his chest. 

“You’re not getting out that easy,” Sirius says. He doesn’t drop his wand.

Draco winces, red-faced. “I’m not trying to escape. I just wanted to open a bloody window.”

“Why?”

Draco reddens further and won’t look Sirius in the eyes. He uncurls his hand and makes a show of flexing his fingers. “What do you mean, why? It’s stuffy in here. I don’t know how you can breathe.”

Sirius doesn’t know how anyone can breathe in this place either. But Draco’s lie is obvious in the way his voice lifts, the way the _Pureblood_ deepens in his vowels.

“That might work on your head of house.” Sirius lets his wand fall but doesn’t pocket it. “I’m harder to fuck with.”

The silence stretches while Draco seems to war with himself. When at last he decides to answer, he still won’t look up. “I wanted to see if there was a letter caught under the window frame.”

“What, expecting instructions from Voldemort?”

Draco flinches at the name. “Today is my birthday,” he says, drawing himself up. It only makes him look younger and thinner. His face is still very pink. “My mother always writes on my birthday. I thought… Even with everything… I thought she might have found a way.”

Of course she hadn’t. The idea is ridiculous. Nobody in contact with Narcissa would dare even hint they knew where Draco was.

Ridiculous, but Sirius can’t bring himself to laugh. “Let me see your hand,” he says roughly, and gestures. The window latch will have left burns. Likely not too bad, but Draco can’t charm them better himself. 

Draco hesitates, then steps forward. He uncurls his hand and holds it out. His fingertips are scalded-pink.

When Sirius takes his hand, he feels the same strange frisson as the first night. He doesn’t look up to see if Draco feels it too. He casts a healing spell and watches the burns melt away, until the pale, narrow fingers are like new.

“Thanks,” Draco mutters, then flees.

The sensation lingers after he’s gone, like a healing spell has been cast on his hand too.

*

Draco doesn’t come down for dinner, so Sirius knocks on his door. It doesn’t open. “I can’t bake cake to save my life,” he calls through it. “But I have Firewhiskey.”

The door opens, revealing Draco, face pinched in a wary sort of confusion. “What are you on about?”

“Are you deaf?” Sirius waves the bottle in his face. “Come downstairs for your birthday party.”

Molly would kill him for this. Narcissa would too. Somehow that makes this all the better. If Sirius has to babysit Death Eater Junior, he’s doing it his way. He hands Draco a glass and brandishes a deck of cards. “Have you ever played poker?”

“Is that a Muggle game?” Draco says skeptically, but he sits down on the carpet when Sirius points. 

Poker goes badly. Sirius realizes halfway through his explanation that he doesn’t remember half the rules, so he makes up some new ones. They play an hour’s worth of hands anyway, betting with a pile of fake coins Sirius conjures up. He’s quietly pleased with how they turn out—the charm comes easier than he expects. He summons the Firewhiskey so they don’t have to get up when their glasses empty.

They get drunk enough that when Draco wins a hand and again asks, “What’s wrong with you,” Sirius answers.

“A curse.” Though he isn’t sure whether that veil is truly even magic or something far beyond. “It fucks up my magic, unless I’m in this fucking house.”

Draco looks around. No doubt taking in the faded wallpaper and ominous cupboards and the lingering presence of dark magic that no amount of scrubbing can get out. The gloom that clings in the corners.

Sirius knows Draco grew up in a house just like it, in every way that matters.

Draco says, “You must be really fucked up outside, if this is you on a good day.”

No need to dwell on the tremors, the nausea, the utter cold. Sirius shrugs. “Ambient blood magic. Hell of a drug.” He gathers the cards, shuffles, and deals the next hand. When he wins, he leans back against the sofa and asks, “Why did you leave the Death Eaters?”

Draco downs the rest of his glass. Looks away and taps his pile of false gold. “He wanted me to kill someone, and I realized I couldn’t. There are other reasons, I guess, but that’s really the one.” 

For a moment, the room flickers, and the boy kneeling at his side is not blond and gray-eyed, but dark-haired, the most familiar stranger he has ever known. Sirius wonders if Regulus had found his morals or his cowardice sooner, whether they might have ended up here too. Downing whiskey and swallowing pride and dredging up memories.

He pours Draco another drink, emptying the bottle, and Draco crawls closer to take it. Sirius is careful their fingers don’t touch, but his caution is in vain. Draco slumps next to him against the couch, his sharp shoulder pressing into Sirius’s arm. 

His eyes are closed. The glass dangles empty from his fingers, glittering in the lamplight. Sirius doesn’t remember him drinking it. He rescues the glass and sets it to the side.

He blames the Firewhiskey for how good he feels right now. Not happy—he forgets happy sometimes—but content. Like a low, constant tremor has eased from his heart. The age-worn floorboards and the prickly old couch and the exhausted teenager at his side seem far more real than they did before. 

The room is so warm, and Draco’s head falls against his shoulder. His breathing is slow. Sirius will move him, he thinks, his own eyes slowly falling shut. Just after he rests a moment.

*

He wakes to movement and a hand at his face. He snarls, lashes out, and opens his eyes to find Draco leaning over him. His thin wrist is caught in Sirius’s iron grip. His breathing is shallow.

Sirius assesses. They’re sprawled on the rug, Draco half on top of him, braced on one arm. Moonlight spills from the window and lights silver in his hair. Draco’s hands are nowhere near his wand. This is unlikely to be an escape attempt.

“What are you doing?” Sirius rasps.

Draco’s eyes are wide. The moonlight doesn’t reach them. “Can’t you feel it?”

Yes. Sirius feels it. His shoulders unknotting. A pull through his veins. A harmony he has not felt in years, like everything is right with the world. Like everything is right within him, and he isn’t one wrong step from shattering.

“I thought I imagined it before,” Draco is saying, as if echoing Sirius’s own thoughts. “But when we touch… It fixes you, doesn’t it?”

His voice is quiet, hesitant, but there is an addictive energy. The excitement of solving a problem, of figuring something out. That urgency in his voice could be beautiful, Sirius thinks, if he was less a piece of shit.

Draco tugs, but Sirius’s hand only tightens further around his wrist. How well the small bones fit within his fingers. How soft and warm the skin against his, and Sirius knows Draco is right. This is fixing him. And what’s more, he knows how. This is old magic, family magic, grounding him in this world.

If he’s pulling from Draco’s magic—

“Is it hurting you?” Sirius asks, and lets go.

Draco only moves closer. He sits over Sirius’s thighs and leans in and touches the pulse in Sirius’s neck. “Trust me,” he breathes, smelling of Firewhiskey. “It doesn’t _hurt_.”

The world spins. He’s still drunk. So is Draco. This is a bad idea in every sense. He leans up on an elbow and reaches out to shove Draco away, but somehow his traitorous hand finds itself in the boy’s hair.

The kiss is clumsy. Slow. Draco tastes of Firewhiskey and sleep and bad decisions, and Sirius has never felt magic quite like this. Desire simmers in his veins. When he sits up, Draco slides into his lap. When Sirius tightens his hand in Draco’s hair, all the boy’s sharp edges seem to melt away.

Sirius holds Draco still and pulls away for breath. He examines Draco: hair sticking everywhere, lips parted, a mess of a person. Mean and scared and reckless beyond reason for wanting someone like Sirius.

“I dislike you a lot,” Sirius says. He likes being honest with his partners.

Draco doesn’t pull away. “I know.” His breath hitches. “I think it’s better that way.” His hands slide down Sirius’s chest, to the hem of his shirt. Then up again, against bare skin, and Sirius can’t help shuddering at the touch. Can’t miss the gleam of want in Draco’s eyes.

And Sirius has never been one to refuse a bad idea.

*

The moon has shifted in the sky, and they are no longer limned in silver light. In the blue shadows, Draco looks like no one but himself. No memories, no ghosts, just a warm body pressed against him, and the warmth of kinship surging through his blood.

“What game are you playing?” Sirius asks. And when Draco opens his mouth to lie, he says, “Don’t fuck with me.”

Draco freezes. Swallows. Speaks the truth: “I need someone on my side.”

Sirius would laugh if he had the breath for it. He’s too exhausted, and he remembers too suddenly that this is Draco’s first war. His too—it never truly ended. They’re both still learning the rules of engagement.

He runs his fingers along Draco’s sides, tracing rib and hollow and scars. “I’m the last man you want for that.”

Draco just shrugs and curls in closer. “Maybe. You need me, though.”

Sirius won’t lie and say he doesn’t.

The warm breath against his neck slows. Sirius closes his eyes, his own thoughts drifting. They can argue tomorrow. Tonight, he can sleep, and dream only of light.


End file.
